Being Buried Dead And Drowned Alive
by SyrenHug
Summary: In which a series of drabbles try to explain the broken pieces of Ryoma's life. Abuse fic. MomoRyo.
1. Chapter 1

Hey. I'm still around. Tennis Racquets, Chocolate and Gold will be updated as soon as I have access to my computer at home. Which I hope is soon. I can't write much without my documents so send good thoughts out there for me.

I've got tons of short stories lined up and this is just one of them. I can't tell you what the pairing is because I'm still trying to figure it out myself. But romance won't become a thing until friendship does. But, we will get there.

This is an AU and it's written in a drabble form because I can write more chapters that way and that's kind of how I write everything. Love me.

Keep in mind. Nobody knows Ryoma. No one. He's fourteen and has no friends. Which sucks.

Warnings: Child abuse.

* * *

_Le__t me tell you something, Ryoma. _

He tried to blink it away. This was school and he was better here. Not good or great, but better. He didn't know these people and these people didn't know him so nothing hurt because nothing mattered. The boy beside him shifted, inching his paper closer to Ryoma's accidently. His lashes were fluttering.

_You're a kid. You still need someone to cook you food and do your laundry. You're still weak. You probably always will be. _

Everyone was a kid, really. Everyone was too young. He focused on the teacher. She was talking about exponential and linear expressions. Tedious. He couldn't distract himself with it.

_I do this to make you stronger. I do this because I care. _

Did caring matter? If being cared for was being stripped of clothing and lying on the floor gasping for breath because air was a commodity denied to you for more than too many seconds then he didn't want it. Fun. But not for him. Sometimes he woke up drowning. Sometimes Ryoga was there.

_You really don't appreciate how much I care, do you? You should. I love you. No one else is going to do that. _

He'd push Ryoma's hair back against his forehead. Tell him a story about angels and demons and a world running with blood. "I'll protect you." Was what he'd hear in the curve of his ear. And he'd hear it in a little hole in his heart where light use to live and grow a garden full of flowers. Innocence was paradise because it existed and hell because it didn't last.

_No one is going to love you out of this, little brother. Look at our parents. They don't love us. _

He snorted quietly. The girl in front of him turned around and raised an eyebrow before returning her attention.

_They lie and pretend to. Remember when I was twelve? And they buried me in the yard? You snuck out, at seven, and told them to put a straw in the dirt so I would be okay. _

Ryoma clenched his hands on the desk.

_Dad and mom agreed because they didn't want to kill me. They wanted to punish me for staying out too late with my friends. _

It was funny growing up with people telling you that you were disgusting, unimportant, undeserving. Because you believed it, but you could laugh about it. Every joke was on you, everything that went wrong was your fault. He couldn't grow out of it. He couldn't _not_ believe it.

_I didn't hang out with my friends for months after that. It's like you and water. Every night I woke up with dirt in my mouth and no cover could get me warm again. _

And everyone had something. Their dying sister in a hospital. A million pennies stashed in a jar. Hidden notebooks with dreams disguised as stories. There were always things that tied a person back down to earth when they were in danger of flying away. Those things were vulnerability, weakness but also strength. And Ryoma wanted that. He wanted something, or someone, that made life mean more than just its definition. He felt stupid for it. He didn't stop.

_I'm going to get you through this. I promise. You're not going to be another story. _

They were dismissed for lunch. He could feel the air whispering on his neck and he rubbed it away but tried to store it somewhere inside where he could reach it later.

* * *

Love ya, everyone. Mwah.


	2. Fear of heights

The next one will most likely be longer then it should be.

Warnings: Ugh.

Note: Things are being updated. Yay.

* * *

It hadn't always been the way it was.

There was a day, when he and his brother were still tiny and excited, when his parent's took them outside and they spent the whole day walking. Ryoga wouldn't stop moving. Finally, their mother laughed and got him some ice cream. Ryoma had pouted. _I want ice cream_, he'd whined.

His father had smiled at him. The kind that had Ryoma trusting, curling his tiny hand in a big one when they walked to get him his own treat. His brother had chased him around the whole afternoon until it got dark. He could remember seeing fireflies.

And he'd said to his mother, "How do they shine so brightly?"

"Look at all of them, Ryoma." She'd pointed. They were clustered around each other. Ryoga had a jar, trying to capture one with their father right behind him. "Why wouldn't you shine if everyone else was shining too?"

* * *

It was dizzying, like an angel falling from heaven. They'd seen a place so good, they'd bathed in the river of honey, but they'd hit the ground. And he was bruised with the reality of it more then his body was.

* * *

"You can sit with us." It was a tall, burly guy with violet colored eyes. He radiated confidence, nodding at the group behind him resting on the grass.

_That's probably not a good idea, little brother. _

Ryoma shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Sorry for asking. You just look lonely and it's obvious you're freshmen."

"Thanks. But no." He declined, turning his attention back to his lap. Food. He'd forgotten food. His _mom _had forgotten food.

_I think it's funny that you're surprised about that. When's the last time you ate?_

Ryoma ignored the voice, watching as the guy strode back to his posse, not one of them glanced back at him. That's how he'd known he'd made the right choice.

* * *

Momo, what are you doing here?


	3. Fear of metal

Hey. I decided to finish this chapter even though it was little hard for me. Just feelings wise. Not easy to write child abuse. Anyways, this is officially a MomoRyo story. We'll meet people next chapter.

Warnings: Child abuse.

* * *

Ryoma was running late.

He had to be home at 4:00 on the dot. School ended at 3:30. It took twenty minutes, sometimes fifteen, to get home. He was always early. Always.

But his teacher had held him back to talk to him about his assignments. "You could do so much better." His teacher has said. And he could. But it wasn't like it mattered. He had four years to do this, to turn in homework, give presentations, take exams. He had four years. Even then, it still wouldn't matter. He wasn't allowed to leave.

_You should probably hurry it up._

He glanced at his wrist then realized he didn't have his watch. Ugh. He really hated Mondays. The slaps of his shoes against the pavement was an interesting contrast to the rough beats of his heart. Nervous. Scared. He couldn't be late.

Then he heard, from somewhere behind him as he hit half way home, "Echizen, Ryoma."

_Just keep going._

Ryoma stopped and took in pale skin and feminine features quickly before he shook his head. "Look, whatever you want I don't have time for it."

"I know." The boy said smoothly. Despite the fact that his eyes were closed Ryoma felt like he was being studied. "Say you'll come to tennis practice tomorrow."

_Ryoma._

God, he hated tennis. Hated it. There were reasons, sure, but that was the bottom line. He could hardly remember the passion he'd felt for it two years ago. "I can't-"

He cut himself off because he _really_ didn't have time for this. "Fine. But don't expect me to play."

Before he took off he heard the boy say, "I don't expect that at all."

* * *

He swung into the kitchen. His mother was looking up at the clock. Her eyes didn't meet his when she said, "Go to your room."

Ryoma snuck a glance. 4:10. He swallowed. "Mom."

"Ryoma."

She knew he hadn't been pleading. Complaining. Trying for anything. He had just needed the safety of her name on his tongue. The acknowledgement that even though she couldn't keep him safe, she was the one person who wanted to. But sometimes, God, he hated her for her weakness. He went upstairs.

He hadn't been late since seventh grade but he knew the process. You had to wait for the amount of time you'd been over. So he had ten minutes. He stared around his room. So clean, polished, blank. That was his life. Nothing, no one, could break through to this world. It wasn't allowed. He waited.

His father's footstep were resonant. They made him flinch but he steeled himself. Pain was important. It made you stronger. That was what his father had said whenever he led unto to how he was feeling. Ryoma's gaze found the floor when his father strode in.

The bed creaked and then eyes almost the same color of his were on him and they were disappointed. He was a disappointment. "So where were you, kid?"

"The teacher wanted to see me after."

"For forty minutes?" Amused. He sounded amused.

Ryoma shook his head. He had to tell the truth. Even the smallest things were things he could use. "No, sir. Some guy came up to me and started talking about joining a club."

"Really? And you spoke to him when you knew you needed to be home?"

"Yes, sir."

His father sighed. "Well, you're going to have to be punished. Take your shirt off and lie down on your stomach."

He was relieved. It could have been worse. There were knives, scissors, lighters, pieces of glass that his father kept in his drawer like they were something precious. Like they were his children. Ryoma pulled off his shirt and lay down on the top of his bed. He wanted to close eyes but he wasn't a kid. He didn't believe that shutting out reality would make it less real anymore.

The metal sound of a belt filtered through and he could feel the coldness of it against his skin. Then there was sharp rap on his lower back and he took a deep breath. Depending on how many he was going to get he was going to be sore in the morning.

After the second tap, he thought of things. Stupid things. The way his mother had always favorited Ryoga so plainly but never failed in telling him how much she loved him.

On the fourth one he winced but thought about summer and how he could watch kid's playing in the streets, pretend to be living their lives.

The seventh hit, Ryoma felt his skin tear. There was something pressing against his eyes but he wasn't going to cry, no. He thought of the way his brother used to smile at him even though everyday their were new marks, new scars. Not just on the skin.

He knew the tenth was going to be the last because it was the hardest. A tear leaked out at the deep pain. It slid unto his tongue just as heard his father leave. He closed his eyes because everything hurt too much.

_Ryoma._

No. He wasn't going to- he didn't need any help. Fine. He was fine.

_You should get some ice. It won't hurt as much tomorrow._

And he couldn't let anyone see. But he couldn't move either. He was tired. Really, really tired. His eyes drifted close. Maybe he'd dream.

_Ryoma-_

But he was already sliding into sleep.

* * *

Ugh. Rinko.


End file.
